


The Helpful Sort

by raja815



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Drunkenness, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Slash, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-26
Updated: 2010-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:40:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raja815/pseuds/raja815
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drunk Mustang needs a little help from Havoc.  (Mild watersports.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Helpful Sort

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the world of my sick, sick fantasies. Written for the prompt "brush" at [](http://15-minute-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://15-minute-fic.livejournal.com/)**15_minute_fic** , a community that requires participants to write a short prompted ficlet in only 15 minutes. Apologies for any lack of quality that stems from the short nature of the challenge.

Havoc’s hand brushes effortlessly over Mustang’s fly, doing down the five black buttons with one practiced swipe. It’s as easy as undoing his own; after all, he knows the way the military trousers work, regardless of who’s wearing them.

“Nnngh,” Mustang grunts. He squirms against Havoc, his ass wriggling against his lieutenant’s cock. They’re so close that it’s nestled there between his buttocks, even with two layers of military trouser separating them. If Mustang wasn’t so ungodly wasted, he’d probably have noticed that his Lieutenant is sporting a pretty good boner.

Of course, if he wasn’t so ungodly wasted, he probably wouldn’t have needed Havoc to help him piss in the first place.

“I’m hurrying,” Havoc assures. “Just hold on.”

They’re standing in one of the bathroom stalls in the facility just across the hallway from their office. Havoc walked Mustang across the hall like a bad puppeteer, struggling to keep him upright as he wavered and stumbled. Now he holds him upright in front of the urinal with his left arm tight across Mustang’s chest, pressing him back against Havoc's own steady body. His right hand is at Mustang’s crotch, as Havoc himself always pisses right-handed.

“…Hurry,” Mustang repeats thickly. “I have to…”

“Yeah, I know, I know.” He parts the dark blue fabric and reaches inside.

Havoc had returned to Eastern Headquarters very late indeed that night, realizing just as he reached his apartment that he’d left his keys behind. He’d been surprised to see the lights on in their office, more surprised still to find the source of the lights was Mustang’s private office. When he’d opened the door and found his Colonel, seated on the couch in the corner cork high and bottle deep into a fifth of whiskey, though, it had made a little more sense.

At first he’d thought Mustang had passed out, and he’d had a second to wonder why Mustang was doing his drinking at work after hours instead of at home, and whether or not he, Havoc, was obligated to leave him to it, when Mustang had grunted and stirred. When Havoc had gone to him to offer his help, Mustang’s one request had come out in a slurred, but urgent, monosyllabic string; “ _Piss. Now. Help…_ ”

Now, Havoc is doing just that. The fly open, he slides his hand into the flap of his boxers. He can tell by the feel that this underwear is a good deal more expensive than his own military-issues. His fingers brush a tuft of wiry pubic hair aside and skate downwards toward his final goal.

Mustang’s cock is small and soft in Havoc’s hand.

“Got ya, Boss,” he murmurs, swallowing a sudden catch in his throat. “Almost ready.”

“ _Hurry,_ ” Mustang moans again.

But Havoc doesn’t really want to hurry.

He shouldn’t like this. It should be an inconvience at best and a fucking disgusting embarrassment at worst; finding his Colonel so drunk that he needs his lieutenant to help him control his goddamn _piss stream,_ and having to stand here in the darkened military can holding him up like a sleeping child isn't something a guy is supposed to enjoy.

But he _does_ like it.

He likes it a lot; likes the feel of Mustang's cock in his hand, the pressure of his ass against Havoc's crotch, the heavy droop of the Colonel’s arms at his sides, the way his hair smells and the way he keeps squirming. But more than that, he likes the way Mustang _needs_ him right now, needs him so much that he can’t even piss on his own, and likes the knowledge that now they’re always going to have this moment, just a little secret, between them. Havoc bets _Hawkeye_ never gets to do this for their Colonel, bets _Hughes_ never does, and he likes that just fine, too. It might be a dirty little secret, but at least it's _Havoc's_ dirty little secret.

He stands there, contemplative, prolonging the moment, gently rolling Mustang's foreskin back and forth. He turns his head, and Mustang's hair brushes against his mouth.

"Havoc." Mustang whines. "I can't hold it..."

“Okay, okay,” he mutters, pulling Mustang out of his pants with a careful turn of his wrist. It’s funny; the way they're standing, it’s so much like doing it for himself, so much like that everyday, mindless action… and yet so different. ‘Cause it’s Mustang here, and not his body at all. This absurd connect-disconnect, familiar-unfamiliar conundrum will later keep Havoc awake, drive him to worry and to masturbate and then to worry some more... but for now, it just feels nice.

Havoc’s erection twitches as he pulls back Mustang’s foreskin and aims him at the pool of water below.

“You’re all set, Boss,” he says.

The stream is immediate and strong, surprising Havoc. He's known Mustang to be a shy pisser in the past, taking his time to get going when they stand side-by-side in the urinals. He really must need this.

Mustang groans in relief as the splashes echo in the empty room. He sighs, deep and long, and his muscles relax further, pressing his body into Havoc’s.

“Thank god,” he grunts, “nnnnaaaaahhh, feels so good…”

_Yeah,_ Havoc thinks, feeling the power of the stream beneath the skin under his fingers, twitching his wrist to change the pattern of the splashes… and all the while pressing his cock just a little bit harder into the cleft of his Colonel’s ass. _Feels pretty damn good all right, Sir._

 

 

* * *


End file.
